We see a town ahead; calling to a man by the roadside,--

"What place is that?"

"L--" is the long drawn shout as we go flying by.

"Why, the S___s live there. I have not seen her since we were at

school. I would like to stop."

"Well, just for a moment."

In a trice the machine is at the door; Mrs. S___ is out--will

return in a moment; so sorry, cannot wait, leave cards; call again

some other day; and we turn ten or fifteen or twenty miles to one

side to see another old school-friend for five or ten minutes

--just long enough for the chauffeur to oil-up while the

school-mates chat.

The automobile annihilates time; it dispenses with watch and

clock; it vaguely notes the coming up and the going down of the

sun; but it goes right on by sunlight, by moonlight, by lamplight,

by no light at all, until it is brought to a stand-still or

capriciously stops of its own accord.

CHAPTER EIGHT THE MORGAN MYSTERY

THE OLD STONE BLACKSMITH SHOP AT STAFFORD

It was Wednesday, August 22, that we left Buffalo. In some stray

notes made by my companion, I find this enthusiastic description

of the start.

"Toof! toof! on it comes like a gigantic bird, its red breast

throbbing, its black wings quivering; it swerves to the right, to

the left, and with a quick sweep circles about and stands panting

at the curb impatient to be off.

"I hastily mount and make ready for the long flight. The chauffeur

grasps the iron reins, something is pulled, and something is

pressed,--'Chic--chic--whirr--whirr--r--r,' we are off. Through

the rich foliage of noble trees we catch last glimpses of

beautiful homes gay with flags, with masses of flowers and broad,

green lawns.

"In a moment we are in the crowded streets where cars, omnibuses,

cabs, carriages, trucks, and wagons of every description are

hurrying pell-mell in every direction. The automobile glides like

a thing of life in and out, snorting with vexation if blocked for

an instant.

"Soon we are out of the hurly-burly; the homes melt away into the

country; the road lengthens; we pass the old toll-gate and are

fairly on our way; farewell city of jewelled towers and gay

festivities.

"The day is bright, the air is sweet, and myriads of yellow

butterflies flutter about us, so thickly covering the ground in

places as to look like beds of yellow flowers.

"Corn-fields and pastures stretch along the roadsides; big red

barns and cosey white houses seem to go skurrying by, calling, 'I

spy,' then vanishing in a sort of cinematographic fashion as the

automobile rushes on."

As we sped onward I pointed out the places--only too well

remembered--where the Professor had worked so hard exactly two

weeks before to the day.

After luncheon, while riding about some of the less frequented

streets of Batavia, we came quite unexpectedly to an old cemetery.

In the corner close to the tracks of the New York Central, so

placed as to be in plain view of all persons passing on trains, is

a tall, gray, weather-beaten monument, with the life-size figure

of a man on the top of the square shaft. It is the monument to the

memory of William Morgan who was kidnapped near that spot in the

month of September, 1826, and whose fate is one of the mysteries

of the last century.

To read the inscriptions I climbed the rickety fence; the grass

was high, the weeds thick; the entire place showed signs of

neglect and decay.

The south side of the shaft, facing the railroad, was inscribed as

follows:

Sacred To The Memory Of

WILLIAM MORGAN,

A NATIVE OF VIRGINIA,

A CAPT. IN THE WAR OF 1812,

A RESPECTABLE CITIZEN OF

BATAVIA, AND A MARTYR

TO THE FREEDOM OF WRITING,

PRINTING, AND SPEAKING THE

TRUTH. HE WAS ABDUCTED

FROM NEAR THIS SPOT IN THE

YEAR 1826 BY FREEMASONS,

AND MURDERED FOR REVEALING

THE SECRETS OF THE ORDER.

The disappearance of Morgan is still a mystery,--a myth to most

people nowadays; a very stirring reality in central and western

New York seventy-five years ago; even now in the localities

concerned the old embers of bitter feeling show signs of life if

fanned by so much as a breath.

Six miles beyond Batavia, on the road to Le Roy, is the little

village of Stafford; some twenty or thirty houses bordering the

highway; a church, a schoolhouse, the old stage tavern, and

several buildings that are to-day very much as they were nearly

one hundred years ago. This is the one place which remains very

much as it was seventy-five years ago when Morgan was kidnapped

and taken through to Canandaigua. As one approaches the little

village, on the left hand side of the highway set far back in an

open field is an old stone church long since abandoned and

disused, but so substantially built that it has defied time and

weather. It is a monument to the liberality of the people of that

locality in those early days, for it was erected for the

accommodation of worshippers regardless of sect; it was at the

disposal of any denomination that might wish to hold services

therein. Apparently the foundation of the weather-beaten structure

was too liberal, for it has been many years since it has been used

for any purpose whatsoever.

As one approaches the bridge crossing the little stream which cuts

the village in two, there is at the left on the bank of the stream

a large three-story stone dwelling. Eighty years ago the first

story of this dwelling was occupied as a store; the third story

was the Masonic lodge-room, and no doubt the events leading up to

the disappearance of Morgan were warmly discussed within the four

walls of this old building. Across from the three-story stone

building is a brick house set well back from the highway,

surrounded by shrubbery, and approached by a gravel walk bordered

by old-fashioned boxwood hedges. This house was built in 1812, and

is still well preserved. For many years it was a quite famous

private school for young ladies, kept by a Mr. Radcliffe.

Across the little bridge on the right is a low stone building now

used as a blacksmith shop, but which eighty years ago was a

dwelling. A little farther on the opposite side of the street is

the old stage tavern, still kept as a tavern, and to-day in

substantially the same condition inside and out as it was

seventy-five years ago. It is now only a roadside inn, but before

railroads were, through stages from Buffalo, Albany, and New York

stopped here. A charming old lady living just opposite, said,--

"I have sat on this porch many a day and watched the stages and

private coaches come rattling up with horn and whip and carrying

the most famous people in the country,--all stopped there just

across the road at that old red tavern; those were gay days; I

shall never see the like again; but perhaps you may, for now

coaches like yours stop at the old tavern almost every day."

The ballroom of the tavern remains exactly as it was,--a fireplace

at one end filled with ashes of burnt-out revelries, a little

railing at one side where the fiddlers sat, the old benches along

the side,--all remind one of the gayeties of long ago.

In connection with the Morgan mystery the village of Stafford is

interesting, because the old tavern and the three-story stone

building are probably the only buildings still standing which were

identified with the events leading up to the disappearance of

Morgan. The other towns, like Batavia and Canandaigua, have grown

and changed, so that the old buildings have long since made way

for modern. One of the last to go was the old jail at Canandaigua

where Morgan was confined and from which he was taken. When that

old jail was torn down some years ago, people carried away pieces

of his cell as souvenirs of a mystery still fascinating because

still a mystery.

As we came out of the old tavern there were a number of men

gathered about the machine, looking at it. I asked them some

questions about the village, and happened to say,--

"I once knew a man who, seventy-five years ago, lived in that

little stone building by the bridge."

"That was in Morgan's time," said an old man, and every one in the

crowd turned instantly from the automobile to look at me.

"Yes, he lived here as a young man."

"They stopped at this very tavern with Morgan on their way

through," said some one in the crowd.

"And that stone building just the other side of the bridge is

where the Masons met in those days," said another.

"That's where they took Miller," interrupted the old man.

"Who was Miller?" I asked.

"He was the printer in Batavia who was getting out Morgan's book;

they brought him here to Stafford, and took him up into the

lodge-room in that building and tried to frighten him, but he wasn't

to be frightened, so they took him on to Le Roy and let him go."

"Did they ever find out what became of Morgan?" I asked.

There was silence for a moment, and then the old man, looking

first at the others, said,--

"No-o-o, not for sartain, but the people in this locality hed

their opinion, and hev it yet."

"You bet they have," came from some one in the crowd.

Thursday we started for Rochester by way of Stafford and Le Roy

instead of Newkirk, Byron, and Bergen, which is the more direct

route and also a good road.

The morning was bright and very warm, scarcely a cloud in the sky,

but there was a feeling of storm in the air,--the earth was

restless.

As we neared Stafford dark clouds were gathering in the far

distant skies, but not yet near enough to cause apprehension.

Driving slowly into the village, we again visited the three-story

stone house. Here, no doubt, as elsewhere, Morgan's forthcoming

exposures were discussed and denounced, here the plot to seize

him--if plot there was--may have been formed; but then there was

probably no plot, conspiracy, or action on the part of any lodge

or body of Masons. Morgan was in their eyes a most despicable

traitor,--a man who proposed to sell--not simply disclose, but

sell--the secrets of the order he joined. There is no reason to

believe that he had the good of any one at heart; that he had

anything in view but his own material prosperity. He made a

bargain with a printer in Batavia to expose Masonry, and lost his

life in attempting to carry out that bargain. Lost his life!--who

knows? The story is a strange one, as strange as anything in the

Arabian Nights; there are men still living who faintly recollect

the excitement, the fends and controversies which lasted for

years. From Batavia to Canandaigua the name of Morgan calls forth

a flood of reminiscences. A man whose father or grandfather had

anything to do with the affair is a character in the community;

now and then a man is found who knew a man who caught a glimpse of

Morgan during that mysterious midnight ride from the Canandaigua

jail over the Rochester road, and on to the end in the magazine of

the old fort at Lewiston. One cannot spend twenty-four hours in

this country without being drawn into the vortex of this absorbing

mystery; it hangs over the entire section, lingers along the

road-sides, finds outward sign and habitation in old buildings,

monuments, and ruins; it echoes from the past in musty books,

papers, and pamphlets; it once was politics, now is history; the

years have not solved it; time is helpless.

At Le Roy we sought shelter under the friendly roof of an old, old

house. How it did storm; the Rochester papers next day said that

no such storm had ever been known in that part of the State. The

rain fell in torrents; the main street was a stream of water

emptying into the river; the flashes of lightning were followed so

quickly by crashes of thunder that we knew trees and buildings

were struck near by, as in fact they were. It seemed as if the

heavens were laying siege to the little village and bringing to

bear all nature's great guns.

The house was filled with old books and mementoes of the past;

every nook and corner was interesting. In an old secretary in an

upper room was found a complete history of Morgan's disappearance,

together with the affidavits taken at the time and records of such

court proceedings as were had.

These papers had been gathered together in 1829. One by one I

turned the yellow leaves and read the story from beginning to end;

it is in brief as follows:

In the summer of 1826 it was rumored throughout Western New York

that one William Morgan, then living in the village of Batavia,

was writing an exposure of the secrets of Free Masonry, under

contract with David Miller, a printer of the same place, who was

to publish the pamphlet.

Morgan was a man entirely without means; he was said to have

served in the War of 1812, and was known to have been a brewer,

but had not made a success in business; he was rooming with a

family in Batavia with his wife and two small children, one a

child of two years, the other a babe of two months. He was quite

irresponsible, and apparently not overscrupulous in either

contracting debts or the use of the property of others.

There is not the slightest reason to believe that his so-called

exposure of Masonry was prompted by any motives other than the

profits he might realize from the sale of the pamphlet. Nor is

there any evidence that he enjoyed the confidence of the community

where he lived. His monument--as in many another case--awards him

virtues he did not possess. The figure of noble bearing on the top

of the shaft is the idealization of subsequent events, and

probably but illy corresponds with the actual appearance of the

impecunious reality. The man's fate made him a hero.

On August 9 the following notice appeared in a newspaper published

in Canandaigua:

"Notice and Caution.--If a man calling himself William Morgan

should intrude himself on the community, they should be on their

guard, particularly the Masonic Fraternity. Morgan was in the

village in May last, and his conduct while here and elsewhere

calls forth this notice. Any information in relation to Morgan can

be obtained by calling at the Masonic Hall in this village.

Brethren and Companions are particularly requested to observe,

mark, and govern themselves accordingly.

"Morgan is considered a swindler and a dangerous man.

"There are people in the village who would be happy to see this

Captain Morgan.

"Canandaigua, August 9, 1826."

This notice was copied in two newspapers published in Batavia.

About the middle of August a stranger by the name of Daniel Johns

appeared in Batavia and took up his lodgings in one of the public

houses of the village. He made the acquaintance of Miller, offered

to go in business with him, and to furnish whatever money might be

necessary for the publication of the Morgan book. Miller accepted

his proposition and took the man into his confidence. As it

afterwards turned out, Johns's object in seeking the partnership

was to secure possession of the Morgan manuscript, so that Miller

could not publish the work; the man's subsequent connection with

this strange narrative appears from the affidavit of Mrs. Morgan,

referred to farther on.

During the month of August, Morgan with his family boarded at a

house in the heart of the village; but to avoid interruption in

his work he had an upper room in the house of John David, on the

other side of the creek from the town.

August 19 three well-known residents of the village accompanied by

a constable from Pembroke went to David's house, inquired for

David and Towsley, who both lived there with their families, and

on being told they were not at home, rushed up-stairs to the room

where Morgan was writing, seized him and the papers which he was

even then arranging for the printer. He was taken to the county

jail and kept from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning, when

he was bailed out.

On the same Saturday evening the same men went to the house where

Morgan boarded, and saying they had an execution, inquired of Mrs.

Morgan whether her husband had any property. They were told he had

none, but nevertheless two of the men went into Morgan's room and

made a search for papers. On leaving the house one of them said to

Mrs. Morgan, "We have just conducted your husband to jail, and

shall keep him there until we find his papers."

September 8, James Ganson, who kept the tavern at Stafford, was

notified from Batavia that between forty and fifty men would be

there for supper. The men came and late at night departed for

Batavia, where they found a number of men gathered from other

points. From an affidavit taken afterwards it seems the object of

the party was to destroy Miller's office, but they found Miller

and Morgan had been warned. At any rate, the party dispersed

without doing anything. Part of them reassembled at Ganson's, and

charges of cowardice were freely exchanged; certain of the leaders

were afterwards indicted for their part in this affair, but no

trial was had.

To this day the business portion of Batavia stretches along both

sides of a broad main street; instead of cross-streets at regular

intervals there are numerous alleys leading off the main street,

with here and there a wider side street. In those days nearly all

the buildings were of wood and but one or two stories in height.

Miller's printing-offices occupied the second stories of two

wooden buildings; a side alley separating the two buildings,

dividing also, of course, the two parts of the printing

establishment.

On Sunday night, September 10, fire was discovered under the

stairways leading to the printing-offices; on extinguishing the

blaze, straw and cotton balls saturated with turpentine were found

under the stairways, and some distance from the buildings a dark

lantern was found.

On this same Sunday morning, September 10, a man--the coroner of

the county--in the village of Canandaigua, fifty miles east of

Batavia, obtained from a justice of the peace a warrant for the

arrest of Morgan on the charge of stealing a shirt and a cravat in

the month of May from an innkeeper named Kingsley.

Having obtained the warrant, which was directed to him as coroner,

the complainant called a constable, and together with four

well-known residents of Canandaigua they hired a special stage and

started for Batavia.

At Avon, Caledonia, and Le Roy they were joined by others who

seemed to understand that Morgan was to be arrested.

At Stafford they stopped for supper at Ganson's tavern. After

supper they proceeded towards Batavia, but stopped about a mile

and a half east of the village, certain of the party returning

with the stage.

Early the next morning Morgan was arrested, and an extra stage

engaged to take the party back. The driver, becoming uneasy as to

the regularity of the proceedings, at first refused to start, but

was persuaded to go as far as Stafford, where Ganson--whom the

driver knew--said everything was all right and that he would

assume all responsibility.

About sunset of the same day--Monday, September 11--they arrived

at Canandaigua, and Morgan was at once examined by the justice;

the evidence was held insufficient and the prisoner discharged.

The same complainant immediately produced a claim for two dollars

which had been assigned to him. Morgan admitted the debt,

confessed judgment, and pulled off his coat, offering it as

security.

The constable refused to take the coat and took Morgan to jail.

Tuesday noon, September 12, a crowd of strangers appeared in

Batavia, assembling at Donald's tavern. A constable went to

Miller's office, arrested him, and took him to the tavern, where

he was detained in a room for about two hours. He was then put in

an open wagon with some men, all strangers to him. The constable

mounted his horse and the party proceeded to Stafford. Arriving

there Miller was conducted to the third story of the stone

building beside the creek, and was there confined, guarded by five

men.

About dusk the constable and the crowd took Miller to Le Roy,

where he was taken before the justice who had issued the warrant,

when all his prosecutors, together with constable and warrant,

disappeared. As no one appeared against the prisoner, the justice

told him he was at liberty to go.

From the docket of the justice it appeared that the warrant had

been issued at the request of Daniel Johns, Miller's partner.

The leaders were indicted for riot, assault, and false

imprisonment, tried, three found guilty and imprisoned. At the

trial there was evidence to show that on the morning of the 12th a

meeting was held in the third story of the stone building at

Stafford, a leader selected, and plans arranged.

On the evening of Tuesday 12th a neighbor of Morgan's called at

the Canandaigua jail and asked to see Morgan. The jailer was

absent. His wife permitted the man to speak to Morgan, and the man

said that he had come to pay the debt for which Morgan was

committed and to take him home. Morgan was asked if he were

willing to go; he answered that he was willing, but that it did

not matter particularly that night, for he could just as well wait

until morning; but the man said "No," that he would rather take

him out that night, for he had run around all day for him and was

very tired and wished to get home. The man offered to deposit with

the jailer's wife five dollars as security for the payment of the

debt and all costs, but she would not let Morgan out, saying that

she did not know the man and that he was not the owner of the

judgment.

The man went out and was gone a few minutes, and brought back a

well-known resident of the village of Canandaigua and the owner of

the judgment; these two men said that it was all right for the

jailer's wife to accept two dollars, the amount of the judgment,

and release Morgan. Taking the money, the woman opened the inside

door of the prison, and Morgan was requested to get ready quickly

and come out. He was soon ready, and walked out of the front door

between the man who had called for him and another. The jailer's

wife while fastening the inside prison-door heard a cry of murder

near the outer door of the jail, and running to the door she saw

Morgan struggling with the two men who had come for him. He

continued to scream and cry in the most distressing manner, at the

same time struggling with all his strength; his voice was

suppressed by something that was put over his mouth, and a man

following behind rapped loudly upon the well-curb with a stick; a

carriage came up, Morgan was put in it by the two men with him,

and the carriage drove off. It was a moonlight night, and the

jailer's wife clearly saw all that transpired, and even remembered

that the horses were gray. Neither the man who made the complaint

nor the resident of Canandaigua who came to the jail and advised

the jailer's wife that she could safely let Morgan go went with

the carriage. They picked up Morgan's hat, which was lost in the

struggle, and watched the carriage drive away.

The account given by the wife of the jailer was corroborated by a

number of entirely reliable and reputable witnesses.

A man living near the jail went to the door of his house and saw

the men struggling in the street, one of them apparently down and

making noises of distress; the man went towards the struggling

man, and asked a man who was a little behind the others what was

the matter, to which he answered, "Nothing; only a man has been

let out of jail, and been taken on a warrant, and is going to be

tried, or have his trial."

In January following, when the feeling was growing against the

abductors of Morgan, the three men in Canandaigua most prominently

connected with all that transpired at the jail on the night in

question made statements in court under oath, which admitted the

facts to be substantially as above outlined, except they insisted

that they did not know why Morgan struggled before getting into

the carriage. These men expressed regret that they did not go to

the assistance of Morgan, and insisted that was the only fault

they committed on the night in question. They admitted that they

understood that Morgan was compiling a book on the subject of

Masonry at the instigation of Miller the publisher at Batavia, and

alleged that he was getting up the book solely for pecuniary

profit, and they believed it was desirable to remove Morgan to

some place beyond the influence of Miller, where his friends and

acquaintances might convince him of the impropriety of his conduct

and persuade him to abandon the publication of the book.

In passing sentence, the court said:

"The legislature have not seen fit, perhaps, from the supposed

improbability that the crime would be attempted, to make your

offence a felony. Its grade and punishment have been left to the

provisions of the common law, which treats it as a misdemeanor,

and punishes it with fine and imprisonment in the common jail. The

court are of opinion that your liberty ought to be made to answer

for the liberty of Morgan: his person was restrained by force; and

the court, in the exercise of its lawful powers, ought not to be

more tender of your liberty than you, in the plenitude of lawless

force, were of his."

It is quite clear that up to this time none of the to do parties

connected directly or indirectly with the abduction of Morgan had

any intention whatsoever of doing him bodily harm. If such had

been their purpose, the course they followed was foolish in the

extreme. The simple fact was the Masons were greatly excited over

the threatened exposure of the secrets of their order by one of

their own members, and they desired to get hold of the manuscript

and proofs and prevent the publication, and the misguided

hot-heads who were active in the matter thought that by getting

Morgan away from Miller they could persuade him to abandon his

project. This theory is borne out by the fact that on the day Morgan

was taken to Canandaigua several prominent men of Batavia called

upon Mrs. Morgan and told her that if she would give up to the

Masons the papers she had in her possession Morgan would be brought

back. She gave up all the papers she could find; they were submitted

to Johns, the former partner of Miller, who said that part of the

manuscript was not there. However, the men took Mrs. Morgan to

Canandaigua, stopping at Avon over night. These men expected to find

Morgan still in Canandaigua, but were surprised to learn that he had

been taken away the night before, whereupon Mrs. Morgan, having left

her two small children at home, returned as quickly as possible.

So far as Morgan's manuscript is concerned, it seems that a

portion of it was already in the hands of Miller, and another

portion secreted inside of a bed at the time he was arrested, so

that not long after his disappearance what purports to be his book

was published.

Nearly two years later, in August, 1828, three men were tried for

conspiracy to kidnap and carry away Morgan. At that time it was

believed by many that Morgan was either simply detained abroad or

in hiding, although it was strenuously insisted by others that he

had been killed. All that was ever known of his movements after he

left the jail at Canandaigua on the night of September 11 was

developed in the testimony taken at this trial.

One witness who saw the carriage drive past the jail testified

that a man was put in by four others, who got in after him and the

carriage drove away; the witness was near the men when they got

into the carriage, and as it turned west he heard one of them cry

to the driver, "Why don't you drive faster? why don't you drive

faster?"

The driver testified that some time prior to the date in question

a man came to him and arranged for him to take a party to

Rochester on or about the 12th. On the night in question he took

his yellow carriage and gray horses about nine o'clock and drove

just beyond the Canandaigua jail on the Palmyra road. A party of

five got into the carriage, but he heard no noise and saw no

resistance, nor did he know any of the men. He was told to go on

beyond Rochester, and he took the Lewiston road. On arriving at

Hanford's one of the party got out; he then drove about one

hundred yards beyond the house, stopping near a piece of woods,

where the others who were in the carriage got out, and he turned

around and drove back.

Another man who lived at Lewiston and worked as a stage-driver

said that he was called between ten and twelve o'clock at night

and told to drive a certain carriage into a back street alongside

of another carriage which he found standing there without any

horse attached to it; some men were standing near it. He drove

alongside the carriage, and one or two men got out of it and got

into his hack. He saw no violence, but on stopping at a point

about six miles farther on some of the men got out, and while they

were conversing, some one in the carriage asked for water in a

whining voice, to which one of the men replied, "You shall have

some in a moment." No water was handed to the person in the

carriage, but the men got in, and he drove them on to a point

about half a mile from Fort Niagara, where they told him to stop;

there were no houses there; the party, four in number, got out and

proceeded side by side towards the fort; he drove back with his

carriage.

A man living in Lewiston swore that he went to his door and saw a

carriage coming, which went a little distance farther on, stopping

beside another carriage which was in the street without horses; he

recognized the driver of the carriage and one other man; he

thought something strange was going on and went into his garden,

where he had a good view of what took place in the road; he saw a

man go from the box of the carriage which had driven by to the one

standing in the street and open the door; some one got out

backward with the assistance of two men in the carriage. The

person who was taken out had no hat, but a handkerchief on his

head, and appeared to be intoxicated and helpless. They took him

to the other carriage and all got in. One of the men went back and

took something from the carriage they had left, which seemed to be

a jug, and then they drove off.

At the trial in question the testimony of a man by the name of

Giddins, who had the custody of old Fort Niagara, was not received

because it appeared he had no religious beliefs whatsoever, but

his brother-in-law testified that on a certain night in September,

shortly after the events narrated, he was staying at Giddins's

house, which was twenty or thirty rods from the magazine of the

old fort; that before going to the installation of the lodge at

Lewiston he went with Giddins to the magazine. Previously to

starting out Giddins had a pistol, which he requested the witness

to carry, but witness declined. Giddins had something else with

him, which the witness did not recognize. When they came within

about two rods of the magazine, Giddins went up to the door and

something was said inside the door. A man's voice came from inside

the magazine; witness was alarmed, and thought he had better get

out of the way, and he at once retreated, followed soon after by

Giddins.

From the old records it seemed that the evidence tracing Morgan to

the magazine of old Fort Niagara was satisfactory to court and

jury; but what became of him no man knows. In January, 1827, the

fort and magazine were visited by certain committees appointed to

make investigations, who reported in detail the condition of the

magazine, which seemed to indicate that some one had been confined

therein not long before, and that the prisoner had made violent

and reiterated efforts to force his way out. A good many hearsay

statements were taken to the effect that Morgan was as a matter of

fact put in the magazine and kept there some days.

Governor De Witt Clinton issued three proclamations, two soon

after September, 1826, and the last dated March 19, 1827, offering

rewards for "Authentic information of the place where the said

William Morgan has been conveyed," and "for the discovery of the

said William Morgan, if alive; and, if murdered, a reward of two

thousand dollars for the discovery of the offender or offenders,

etc."

In the autumn of 1827 a body was cast up on the shore of Lake

Ontario near the mouth of Oak Orchard Creek. Mrs. Morgan and a Dr.

Strong identified the body as that of William Morgan by a scar on

the foot and by the teeth.

The identification was disputed; the disappearance of Morgan was

then a matter of politics, and the anti-masons, headed by Thurlow

Weed, originated the saying, "It's a good enough Morgan for us

until you produce the live one," which afterwards become current

political slang in the form, "It's a good enough Morgan until

after election."

CHAPTER NINE THROUGH WESTERN NEW YORK

IN THE MUD

The afternoon was drawing to a close, the rain had partially

subsided, but the trees were heavy with water, and the streets ran

rivulets.

Prudence would seem to dictate remaining in Le Roy over-night,

but, so far as roads are concerned, it is always better to start

out in, or immediately after, a rain than to wait until the water

has soaked in and made the mud deep. A heavy rain washes the

surface off the roads; it is better not to give it time to

penetrate; we therefore determined to start at once.

There was not a soul on the streets as we pulled out a few moments

after five o'clock, and in the entire ride of some thirty miles we

met scarcely more than three or four teams.

We took the road by Bergen rather than through Caledonia; both

roads are good, but in very wet weather the road from Bergen to

Rochester is apt to be better than that from Caledonia, as it is

more sandy.

To Bergen, eight miles, we found hard gravel, with one steep hill

to descend; from Bergen in, it was sandy, and after the rain, was

six inches deep in places with soft mud.

It was slow progress and eight o'clock when we pulled into

Rochester.

We were given rooms where all the noises of street and trolley

could be heard to best advantage; sleep was a struggle, rest an

impossibility.

Hotel construction has quite kept pace with the times, but hotel

location is a tradition of the dark ages, when to catch patrons it

was necessary to get in their way.

At Syracuse the New York Central passes through the principal

hotels,--the main tracks bisecting the dining-rooms, with side

tracks down each corridor and a switch in each bed-room; but this

is an extreme instance.

It was well enough in olden times to open taverns on the highways;

an occasional coach would furnish the novelty and break the

monotony, but people could sleep.

The erection of hotels in close proximity to railroad tracks, or

upon the main thoroughfares of cities where stone or asphalt

pavements resound to every hoof-fall, and where street cars go

whirring and clanging by all night long, is something more than an

anachronism; it is a fiendish disregard of human comfort.

Paradoxical as it may seem,--a pious but garrulous old gentleman

was one time invited to lead in prayer; consenting, he approached

the throne of grace with becoming humility, saying, "Paradoxical

as it may seem, O Lord, it is nevertheless true," etc., the phrase

is a good one, it lingers in the ear,--therefore, once more,

--paradoxical as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that those

who go about all day in machines do not like to be disturbed by

machines at night.

We soon learned to keep away from the cities at night. It is so

much more delightful to stop in smaller towns and villages; your

host is glad to see you; you are quite the guest of honor, perhaps

the only guest; there is a place in the adjoining stable for the

machine; the men are interested, and only too glad to care for it

and help in the morning; the best the house affords is offered; as

a rule the rooms are quite good, the beds clean, and nowadays many

of these small hotels have rooms with baths; the table is plain;

but while automobiling one soon comes to prefer plain country

living.

In the larger cities it costs a fortune in tips before the machine

and oneself are well housed; to enter Albany, Boston, or New York

at night, find your hotel, find the automobile station, find your

luggage, and find yourself, is a bore.

No one who has ever ridden day after day in the country cares

anything about riding in cities; it is as artificial and

monotonous as riding a hunter over pavements. If one could just

approach a city at night, steal into it, enjoy its lights and

shadows, its confusion and strange sounds, all in passing, and

slip through without stopping long enough to feel the thrust of

the reality, it would be delightful. But the charm disappears, the

dream is brought to earth, the vision becomes tinsel when you draw

up in front of a big caravansary and a platoon of uniformed

porters, bell-boys, and pages swoop down upon everything you have,

including your pocket-book; then the Olympian clerk looks at you

doubtfully, puzzled for the first time in his life, does not know

whether you are a mill-hand from Pittsburgh who should be assigned

a hall bed-room in the annex, or a millionaire from Newport who

should be tendered the entire establishment on a silver platter.

The direct road from Rochester to Syracuse is by way of Pittsford,

Palmyra, Newark, Lyons, Clyde, Port Byron, and Camillus, but it is

neither so good nor so interesting as the old roads through Geneva

and Auburn.

In going from Buffalo to Albany _via_ Syracuse, Rochester is to

the north and some miles out of the way; unless one especially

desires to visit the city, it is better to leave it to one side.

Genesee Street out of Buffalo is Genesee Street into Syracuse and

Utica; it is the old highway between Buffalo and Albany, and may

be followed to-day from end to end.

Instead of turning to the northeast at Batavia and going through

Newkirk, Byron, Bergen, North Chili, and Gates to Rochester, keep

more directly east through Le Roy, Caledonia, Avon, and

Canandaigua to Geneva; the towns are old, the hotels, most of

them, good, the roads are generally gravel and the country

interesting; it is old New York. No one driving through the State

for pleasure would think of taking the direct road from Rochester

to Syracuse; the beautiful portions of this western end of the

State are to the south, in the Genesee and Wyoming Valleys, and

through the lake region.

We left Rochester at ten o'clock, Saturday, the 24th, intending to

go east by Egypt, Macedon, Palmyra,--the Oriental route, as my

companion called it; but after leaving Pittsford we missed the

road and lost ourselves among the hills, finding several grades so

steep and soft that we both were obliged to dismount.

An old resident was decidedly of the opinion that the roads to the

southeast were better than those to the northeast, and we turned

from the Nile route towards Canandaigua.

Though the roads were decidedly better, in many places being well

gravelled, the heavy rains of the previous two days made the going

slow, and it was one-thirty before we pulled up at the old hotel

in Canandaigua for dinner.

As the machine had been there before, we were greeted as friends.

The old negro porter is a character,--quite the irresponsible head

of the entire establishment.

"Law's sakes! you heah agen? glad to see you; whar you come from

dis time? Rochester! No, foh sure?--dis mawning?--you doan say so;

that jes' beats me; to think I live to see a thing like that; it's

a reg'lar steam-engine, aint it?"

"Sambo," called out a bystander, making fun of the old darkey, "do

you know what you are looking at?"

"Well, if I doan, den I can't find out frum dis yere crowd."

"What do they call it, Sambo?" some one else asked.

"Sh-sh'h--that's a secret; an' if I shud tell you, you cudn't keep

it."

"Is it yours?"

"I dun sole mine to Mistah Vand'bilt las' week; he name it de

White Ghos'--after me."

"You mean the Black Devil."

"No, I doan; he didn't want to hu't youah feelings; Mistah

Vand'bilt a very consid'rate man."

Sambo carried our things in, talking all the time.

"Now you jes' go right into dinnah; I'll take keer of the

auto'bile; I'll see that nun of those ign'rant folk stannin' roun'

lay their han's on it; they think Sambo doan know an auto'bile;

didn't I see you heah befoh? an' didn't I hole de hose when you

put de watah in? Me an' you are de only two pussons in dis whole

town who knows about de auto'bile,--jes' me an' you."

After dinner we rode down the broad main street and around the

lake to the left in going to Geneva. Barring the fact that the

roads were soft in places, the afternoon's ride was delightful,

the roads being generally very good.

It was about five o'clock when we came to the top of the hills

overlooking Geneva and the silvery lake beyond. It was a sight not

to be forgotten by the American traveller, for this country has

few towns so happily situated as the village of Geneva,--a cluster

of houses against a wooded slope with the lake like a mirror

below.

The little hotel was almost new and very good; the rooms were

large and comfortable. There was but one objection, and that the

location at the very corner of the busiest and noisiest streets.

But Geneva goes to bed early,--even on Saturday nights,--and by

ten or eleven o'clock the streets were quiet, while on Sunday

mornings there is nothing to disturb one before the bells ring for

church.

We were quite content to rest this first Sunday out.

It was so delightfully quiet all the morning that we lounged about

and read until dinner-time. In the afternoon a walk, and in the

evening friends came to supper with us. In a moment of ambitious

emulation of metropolitan customs the small hotel had established

a roof garden, with music two or three evenings a week, but the

innovation had not proven profitable; the roof remained with some

iron framework that once supported awnings, several disconsolate

tables, and some lonesome iron chairs; we visited this scene of

departed glory and obtained a view of the lake at evening.

The irregular outlines of the long shadows of the hills stretched

far out over the still water; beyond these broken lines the

slanting rays of the setting sun fell upon the surface of the

lake, making it to shine like a mass of burnished silver.

Some white sails glimmered in the light far across; near by we

caught the sound of church-bells; the twilight deepened, the

shadows lengthened, the luminous stretch of water grew narrower

and narrower until it disappeared entirely and all was dark upon

the lake, save here and there the twinkle of lights from moving

boats,--shifting stars in the void of night.

The morning was bright as we left Geneva, but the roads, until we

struck the State road, were rough and still muddy from the recent

rains.

It was but a short run to Auburn, and from there into Syracuse the

road is a fine gravel.

The machine had developed a slight pounding and the rear-axle

showed signs of again parting at the differential.

After luncheon the machine was run into a machine shop, and three

hours were spent in taking up the lost motion in the eccentric

strap, at the crank-pin, and in a loose bushing.

On opening up the differential gear case both set-screws holding

the axles were found loose. The factory had been most emphatically

requested to put in larger keys so as to fit the key-ways snugly

and to lock these set-screws in some way--neither of these things

had been done; and both halves of the rear-axle were on the verge

of working out.

Small holes were bored through the set-screws, wires passed

through and around the shoulders of the gears, and we had no

further trouble from this source.

It was half-past five before we left Syracuse for Oneida. The road

is good, and the run of twenty-seven miles was made in little over

two hours, arriving at the small, old-fashioned tavern in Oneida

at exactly seven forty-five.

A number of old-timers dropped into the hotel office that evening

to see what was going on and hear about the strange machine. Great

stories were exchanged on all sides; the glories of Oneida quite

eclipsed the lesser claims of the automobile to fame and

notoriety, for it seemed that some of the best known men of New

York and Chicago were born in the village or the immediate

vicinity; the land-marks remain, traditions are intact, the men

departed to seek their fortunes elsewhere, but their successes are

the town's fame.

The genial proprietor of the hotel carried his seventy-odd years

and two hundred and sixty pounds quite handily in his

shirt-sleeves, moving with commendable celerity from office to

bar-room, supplying us in the front room with information and

those in the back with refreshment.

"So you never heard that those big men were born in this locality.

That's strange; tho't ev'rybody knew that. Why 'Neida has produced

more famous men than any town same size in 'Merika,--Russell Sage,

General New,--comin'" (to those in the bar-room); "say, you

fellers, can't you wait?" As he disappeared in the rear we heard

his rotund voice, "What'll you take? Was jest tellin' that chap

with the threshin'-machine a thing or two about this country. Rye?

no, thet's Bourbon--the reel corn juice--ten years in wood--"

"Mixed across the street at the drug store--ha! ha! ha!"

interrupted some one.

"Don't be faceshus, Sam; this ain't no sody-fountin."

"Where'd that feller cum frum with his steam pianer,--Syr'cuse?"

"Naw! Chicago."

"Great cranberries! you don't say so,--all the way from Chicago!

When did he start?"

"Day 'fore yesterday," replied the old man, and we could hear him

putting back the bottles; a chorus of voices,--

"What!"

"Holy Mo--"

"Day afore yester--say, look here, you're jokin'."

"Mebbe I am, but if you don't believe it, ask him."

"Why Chicago is further'n Buf'lo--an' that's faster'n a train."

"Yes," drawled the old man; "he passed the Empire Express th'

other side Syr'cuse."

"Get out."

"What do you take us fer?"

"Wall, when you cum in, I took you fer fellers who knowed the

diff'rence betwixt whiskey and benzine, but I see my mistake. You

fellers shud buy your alc'hol across the way at the drug store; it

don't cost s' much, and burns better."

"Thet's one on us. Your whiskey is all right, grandpa, the reel

corn juice--ten year in wood--too long in bottl'spile if left over

night, so pull the stopper once more."

CHAPTER TEN THE MOHAWK VALLEY

IN THE VALLEY

On looking over the machine the next morning, Tuesday, the 27th,

the large cap-screws holding the bearings of the main-shaft were

found slightly loose. The wrench with the machine was altogether

too light to turn these screws up as tight as they should be; it

was therefore necessary to have a wrench made from tool steel;

that required about half an hour, but it was time well spent.

The road from Oneida to Utica is very good; rolling but no steep

grades; some sand, but not deep; some clay, but not rough; for the

most part gravel.

The run of twenty miles was quickly made. We stopped only for a

moment to inquire for letters and then on to Herkimer by the road

on the north side of the valley. Returning some weeks later we

came by the south road, through Frankford, between the canal and

the railroad tracks, through Mohawk and Ilion. This is the better

known and the main travelled road; but it is far inferior to the

road on the north; there are more hills on the latter, some of the

grades being fairly steep, but in dry weather the north road is

more picturesque and more delightful in every way, while in wet

weather there is less deep mud.

At Herkimer, eighteen and one-half miles from Utica and

thirty-eight from Oneida, we had luncheon, then inquired for

gasoline. Most astonishing! in the entire village no gasoline to be

had. A town of most respectable size, hotel quite up to date, large

brick blocks of stores, enterprise apparent--but no gasoline. Only

one man handled it regularly, an old man who drove about the country

with his tank-wagon distributing kerosene and gasoline; he had no

place of business but his house, and he happened to be entirely out

of gasoline. In two weeks the endurance run of the Automobile Club

of America would be through there; at Herkimer those in the contest

were to stop for the night,--and no gasoline.

In the entire pilgrimage of over two thousand miles through nine

States and the province of Ontario, we did not find a town or

village of any size where gasoline could not be obtained, and

frequently we found it at cross-road stores,--but not at Herkimer.

Happily there was sufficient gasoline in the tank to carry us on;

besides, we always had a gallon in reserve. At the next village we

found all we needed.

When we returned through Herkimer some weeks later nearly every

store had gasoline.

If hotels, stables, and drug stores, wherever automobiles are apt

to come, would keep a five-gallon can of gasoline on hand, time

and trouble would be saved, and drivers of automobiles would be

only too glad to pay an extra price for the convenience.

The grades of gasoline sold in this country vary from the common

so-called "stove gasoline," or sixty-eight, to seventy-four.

The country dealers are becoming wise in their generation, and all

now insist they keep only seventy-four. As a matter of fact nearly

all that is sold in both cities and country is the "stove

gasoline," because it is kept on hand principally for stoves and

torches, and they do not require higher than sixty-eight. In fact,

one is fortunate if the gasoline tests so high as that.

American machines, as a rule, get along very well with the low

grades, but many of the foreign machines require the better

grades. If a machine will not use commercial stove gasoline, the

only safe thing is to carry a supply of higher grade along, and

that is a nuisance.

It is difficult to find a genuine seventy-four even in the cities,

since it is commonly sold only in barrels. If the exhaust of a

gasoline stationary engine is heard anywhere along the road-side,

stop, for there will generally be found a barrel or two of the

high-grade, and a supply may be laid in.

The best plan, however, is to have a carburetor and motor that

will use the ordinary "stove-grade;" as a matter of fact, it

contains more carbon and more explosive energy if thoroughly

ignited, but it does not make gas so readily in cold weather and

requires a good hot spark.

All day we rode on through the valley, now far up on the

hill-sides, now down by the meadows; past Palatine Church,

Palatine Bridge; through Fonda and Amsterdam to Schenectady.

It was a glorious ride. The road winds along the side of the

valley, following the graceful curves and swellings of the hills.

The little towns are so lost in the recesses that one comes upon

them quite unexpectedly, and, whirling through their one long main

street, catches glimpses of quaint churches and buildings which

fairly overhang the highway, and narrow vistas of lawns, trees,

shrubbery, and flowers; then all is hidden by the next bend in the

road.

During the long summer afternoon we sped onward through this

beautiful valley. Far down on the tracks below trains would go

scurrying by; now and then a slow freight would challenge our

competition; trainmen would look up curiously; occasionally an

engineer would sound a note of defiance or a blast of victory with

his whistle.

The distant river followed lazily along, winding hither and

thither through the lowland, now skirting the base of the hills,

now bending far to the other side as if resentful of such rude

obstructions to its once impetuous will.

Far across on the distant slopes we could see the cattle grazing,

and farther still tiny specks that were human beings like

ourselves moving upon the landscape. Nature's slightest effort

dwarfs man's mightiest achievements. That great railroad with its

many tracks and rushing trains seemed a child's plaything,--a

noisy, whirring, mechanical toy beside the lazy river; for did not

that placid, murmuring, meandering stream in days gone by hollow

out this valley? did not nature in moments of play rear those

hills and carve out those distant mountains? Compared with these

traces of giant handiwork, what are the works of man? just little

putterings for our own convenience, just little utilizations of

waste energies for our own purposes.

One should view nature with the setting sun. It may gratify a

bustling curiosity to see nature at her toilet, but that is the

part of a "Peeping Tom."

The hour of sunrise is the hour for work, it is the hour when

every living thing feels the impulse to do something. The birds do

not fly to the tree-tops to view the morning sun, the animals do

not rush forth from their lairs to watch the landscape lighten

with the morning's glow; no, all nature is refreshed and eager to

be doing, not seeing; acting, not thinking. Man is no exception to

this all-embracing rule; his innate being protests against

idleness; the most secret cells of his organization are charged to

overflowing with energy and demand relief in work.

Morning is not the hour for contemplation; but when evening comes,

as the sun sinks towards the west, and lengthening shadows make it

seem as if all nature were stretching herself in repose, then do

we love to rest and contemplate the rich loveliness of the earth

and the infinite tenderness of the heavens. Every harsh line,

every glare of light, every crude tone has disappeared. We stroke

nature and she purrs. We sink at our ease in a bed of moss and

nature nestles at our side; we linger beside the silvery brook and

it sings to us; we listen attentively to the murmuring trees and

they whisper to us; we gaze upon the frowning hills and they smile

upon us. And by and by as the shadows deepen all outlines are

lost, and we see vaguely the great masses of tone and color;

nature becomes heroic; the petty is dissolved; the insignificant

is lost; hills and trees and streams are blended in one mighty

composition, in the presence of which all but the impalpable soul

of man is as nothing.

We left Schenectady at nine o'clock, taking the Troy road as far

as Latham's Corners, then to the right into Albany.

We reached the city at half-past ten. Albany is not a convenient

place for automobiles. There are no special stations for the

storing of machines, and the stables are most inaccessible on

account of the hills and steep approaches.

CHAPTER ELEVEN THE VALLEY OF LEBANON

THE SICK TURKEY

It was four o'clock, next day, when we left Albany, going down

Green Street and crossing the long bridge, taking the straight

road over the ridges for Pittsfield.

Immediately on leaving the eastern end of the bridge the ascent of

a long steep grade is begun. This is the first ridge, and from

this on for fifteen miles is a succession of ridges, steep rocky

hills, and precipitous declines. These continue until Brainerd is

reached, where the valley of Lebanon begins.

These ridges can be partially avoided by turning down the Hudson

to the right after crossing the bridge and making a detour to

Brainerd; the road is about five miles longer, but is very

commonly taken by farmers going to the city with heavy loads, and

may well be taken by all who wish to avoid a series of stiff

grades.

Many farmers were amazed to hear we had come over the hills

instead of going around, and wondered how the machine managed to

do it.

Popular notions concerning the capabilities of a machine are

interesting; people estimate its strength and resources by those

of a horse. In speaking of roads, farmers seem to assume the

machine--like the horse--will not mind one or two hills, no matter

how steep, but that it will mind a series of grades, even though

none are very stiff.

Steam and electric automobiles do tire,--that is, long pulls

through heavy roads or up grades tell on them,--the former has

trouble in keeping up steam, the latter rapidly consumes its store

of electricity. The gasoline machine does not tire. Within its

limitations it can keep going indefinitely, and it is immaterial

whether it is up or down grade--save in the time made; it will go

all day through deep mud, or up steep hills, quite as smoothly,

though by no means so fast, as on the level; but let it come to

one hole, spot, or hill that is just beyond the limit of its

power, and it is stuck; it has no reserve force to draw upon. The

steam machine can stop a moment, accumulate two or three hundred

pounds of steam, open the throttle and, for a few moments, exert

twice its normal energy to get out of the difficulty.

It is not a series of hills that deters the gasoline operator, but

the one hill, the one grade, the one bad place, which is just

beyond the power he has available. The road the farmer calls good

may have that one bad place or hill in it, and must therefore be

avoided. The road that is pronounced bad may be, every foot of it,

well within the power of the machine, and is therefore the road to

take.

In actual road work the term "horse-power" is very misleading.

When steam-engines in early days began to take the place of

horses, they were rated as so many horse-power according to the

number of horses they displaced. It then became important to find

out what was the power of the horse. Observing the strong dray

horses used by the London breweries, Watt found that a horse could

go two and one-half miles per hour and at the same time raise a

weight of one hundred and fifty pounds suspended by a rope over a

pulley; this is equivalent to thirty-three thousand pounds raised

one foot in one minute, which is said to be one horse-power.

No horse, of course, could raise thirty-three thousand pounds a

foot or any portion of a foot in a minute or an hour, but the

horse can travel at the rate of two and one-half miles an hour

raising a weight of one hundred and fifty pounds, and the horse

can do more; while it cannot move so heavy a weight as

thirty-three thousand pounds, it can in an emergency and by sudden

strain move much more than one hundred and fifty pounds; with good

foothold it can pull more than its own weight along a road, out of a

hole, or up a hill. It could not lift or pull so great a weight very

far; in fact, no farther than the equivalent of approximately

thirty-three thousand pounds raised one foot in one minute; but for

the few seconds necessary a very great amount of energy is at the

command of the driver of the horse. Hence eight horses, or even

four, or two can do things on the road that an eight horse-power

gasoline machine cannot do; for the gasoline machine cannot

concentrate all its power into the exertion of a few moments. If it

is capable of lifting a given load up a given grade at a certain

speed on its lowest gear, it cannot lift twice the load up the same

grade, or the same load up a steeper grade in double the time, for

its resources are exhausted when the limit of the power developed

through the lowest gear is reached. The grade may be only a mud

hole, out of which the rear wheels have to rise only two feet to be

free, but it is as fatal to progress as a hill a mile long.

Of course it is always possible to race the engine, throw in the

clutch, and gain some power from the momentum of the fly-wheel,

and many a bad place may be surmounted step by step in this way;

but this process has its limitations also, and the fact remains

that with a gasoline machine it is possible to carry a given load

only so fast, but if the machine moves it all, it will continue to

move on until the load is increased, or the road changes for the

worse.

When the farmer hears of an eight horse-power machine he thinks of

the wonderful things eight good horses can do on the road, and is

surprised when the machine fails to go up hills that teams travel

every day; he does not understand it, and wonders where the power

comes in. He is not enough of a mechanic to reflect that the eight

horse-power is demonstrated in the carrying of a ton over average

roads one hundred and fifty miles in ten hours, something eight

horses could not possibly do.

Just as we were entering the valley of Lebanon, beyond the village

of Brainerd, while going down a slight descent, my Companion

exclaimed,--

"The wheel is coming off." I threw out the clutch, applied the

brake, looked, and saw the left front wheel roll gracefully and

quite deliberately out from under the big metal mud guard; the

carriage settled down at that corner, and the end of the axle

ploughed a furrow in the road for a few feet, when we came to a

stop.

The steering-head had broken short off at the inside of the hub.

We were not going very fast at the time, and the heavy metal mud

guard which caught the wheel, acting as a huge brake, saved us

from a bad smash.

On examination, the shank of the steering-head was found to

contain two large flaws, which reduced its strength more than

one-half, and the surprising thing was that it had not parted long

before, when subjected to much severer strains.

This was a break that no man could repair on the road. Under

pressure of circumstances the steering-head could have been taken

to the nearest blacksmith shop and a weld made, but that would

require time, and the results would be more than doubtful. By far

the easier thing to do was to wire the factory for a new head and

patiently wait its coming.

Happily, we landed in the hands of a retired farmer, whose

generous hospitality embraced our tired selves as well as the

machine.

Before supper a telegram was sent from Brainerd to the factory for

a new steering-head.

While waiting inside for the operator to finish selling tickets

for the one evening train about to arrive, a curious crowd

gathered outside about my host, and the questions asked were

plainly audible; the names are fictitious.

"What'r ye down t' the stashun fur this hur o' day, Joe?"

"Broke my new aut'mobile," carelessly replied my host, flicking a

fly off the nigh side of his horse.

"Shu!"

"What'r given us?"

"Git out--"

"You ain't got no aut'mobile," chorused the crowd.

"Mebbe I haven't; but if you fellows know an aut'mobile from a hay

rake, you might take a look in my big barn an' let me know what

you see."

"Say, Joe, you're jokin',--hev you really got one?"

"You can look for yourselves."

"I saw one go through here 'bout six o'clock," interrupted a

new-comer. "Great Jehosephat, but 't went like a streak of greased

lightnin'."

"War that your'n, Joe?"

"Well--"

"Naw," said the new-comer, scornfully. "Joe ain't got no

aut'mobile; there's the feller in there now who runs it," and the

crowd turned my way with such interest that I turned to the little

table and wrote the despatch, quite losing the connection of the

subdued murmurs outside; but it was quite evident from the broken

exclamations that my host was filling the populace up with

information interesting inversely to its accuracy.

"Mile a minute--faster'n a train--Holy Moses! what's that, Joe?

broke axle--telegraphed--how many--four more--you don't say so?--

what's his name? I'll bet it's Vanderbilt. Don't you believe it--

it costs money to run one of those machines. I'll bet he's a dandy

from 'way back--stopping at your house--bridal chamber--that's

right--you want to kill the fatted calf for them fellers--say--"

But further comments were cut short as I came out, jumped in, and

we drove back to a good supper by candle-light.

The stars were shining over head, the air was clear and crisp,

down in the valley of Lebanon the mist was falling, and it was

cool that night. Lulled by the monotonous song of the tree-toad

and the deep bass croaking of frogs by the distant stream, we fell

asleep.

There was nothing to do next day. The new steering-head could not

possibly arrive until the morning following. As the farm was

worked by a tenant, our host had little to do, and proposed that

we drive to the Shaker village a few miles beyond.

The visit is well worth making, and we should have missed it

entirely if the automobile had not broken down, for the new State

road over the mountain does not go through the village, but back

of it. From the new road one can look down upon the cluster of

large buildings on the side of the mountain, but the old roads are

so very steep, with such interesting names as "Devil's Elbow," and

the like, that they would not tempt an automobile. Many with

horses get out and walk at the worst places.

One wide street leads through the settlement; on each side are the

huge community buildings, seven in all, each occupied by a

"family," so called, or community, and each quite independent in

its management and enterprises from the others; the common ties

being the meeting-house near the centre and the school-house a

little farther on.

We stopped at the North Family simply because it was the first at

hand, and we were hungry. Ushered into a little reception-room in

one of the outer buildings, we were obliged to wait for dinner

until the party preceding us had finished, for the little

dining-room devoted to strangers had only one table, seating but six

or eight, and it seemed to be the commendable policy of the

institution to serve each party separately.

A printed notice warned us that dinner served after one o'clock

cost ten cents per cover extra, making the extravagant charge of

sixty cents. We arrived just in time to be entitled to the regular

rate, but the dilatory tactics of the party in possession kept us

beyond the hour and involved us in the extra expense, with no

compensation in the shape of extra dishes. Morally and--having

tendered ourselves within the limit--legally we were entitled to

dine at the regular rate, or the party ahead should have paid the

additional tariff, but the good sister could not see the matter in

that light, plead ignorance of law, and relied entirely upon

custom.

The man who picks up a Shaker maiden for a fool will let her drop.

Having waited until nearly famished, the sister blandly told us,

as if it were a matter of local interest, but otherwise of small

consequence, that the North Family were strict vegetarians,

serving no meat whatsoever; the only meat family was at the other

end of the village.

We were ready for meat, for chickens, ducks, green goose, anything

that walked on legs; we were not ready for pumpkin, squash, boiled

potatoes, canned peas, and cabbage; but a theory as well as a

condition confronted us; it was give in or move on. We gave in,

but for fifteen cents more per plate bargained for preserves,

maple syrup, and honey,--for something cloying to deceive the

outraged palate.

But that dinner was a revelation of what a good cook can do with

vegetables in season; it was the quintessence of delicacy, the

refinement of finesse, the veritable apotheosis of the kitchen

garden; meat would have been brutal, the intrusion of a chop

inexcusable, the assertion of a steak barbarous, even a terrapin

would have felt quite out of place amidst things so fragrant and

impalpable as the marvellous preparations of vegetables from that

wonderful Shaker kitchen.

Everything was good, but the various concoctions of sweet corn

were better; and such sweet corn! it is still a savory

recollection.

Then the variety of preserves, jellies, and syrups; fifteen cents

extra were never bestowed to better advantage. We cast our coppers

upon the water and they returned Spanish galleons laden with good

things to eat.

After dining, we were walked through the various buildings, up

stairs and down, through kitchens, pantries, and cellars,--a wise

exercise after so bountiful a repast. In the cellar we drank

something from a bottle labelled "Pure grape juice," one of those

non-alcoholic beverages with which the teetotaler whips the devil

around the stump; another glass would have made Shakers of us all,

for the juice of the grape in this instance was about twenty-five

per cent. proof. If the good sisters supply their worthy brothers

in faith with this stimulating cordial, it is not unlikely that

life in the village is less monotonous than is commonly supposed.

It certainly was calculated to add emphasis to the eccentricities

of even a "Shaking Quaker."

Although the oldest and the wealthiest of all the socialistic

communities, there are only about six thousand Shakers in the

United States, less than one-fourth of what there were in former

times.

At Mt. Lebanon, the first founded of the several societies in this

country, there are seven families, or separate communities, each

with its own home and buildings. The present membership is about

one hundred and twenty, nearly all women,--scarcely enough men to

provide the requisite deacons for each family.

Large and well-managed schools are provided to attract children

from the outside world, and so recruit the diminishing ranks of

the faithful; but while many girls remain, the boys steal away to

the heathen world, where marriage is an institution.

Celibacy is the cardinal principle and the curse of Shakerism; it

is slowly but surely bringing the sect to an end. It takes a lot

of fanaticism to remain single, and fanaticism is in the sere and

yellow leaf. In Massachusetts, where so many women are compelled

to remain single, there ought to be many Shakers; there are a few,

and Mt. Lebanon is just over the line.

Celibacy does not appeal strongly to men. A man is quite willing

to live alone if it is not compulsory, but celibates cannot stand

restraint; the bachelor is bound to have his own way--until he is

married. Tell a man he may not marry, and he will; that he must

marry, and he won't.

The sect which tries to get along with either too little or too

much marriage is bound to peter out. There were John Noyes and

Brigham Young. John founded the Oneida Community upon the

proposition that everything should be in common, including

husbands, wives, and children; from the broadest possible

communism his community has regenerated into the closet of stock

companies "limited," with a capital stock of seven hundred and

fifty thousand dollars, a surplus of one hundred and fifty

thousand, and only two hundred and nineteen stockholders.

In the palmy days of Mormonism the men could have as many wives as

they could afford,--a scheme not without its practical advantages

in the monotonous life of pioneer settlements, since it gave the

women something to quarrel about and the men something to think

about, thereby keeping both out of mischief,--but with the advent

of civilization with its diverse interests, the men of Salt Lake,

urged also by the law, are getting tired of more than one wife at

a time, and the community will soon be absorbed and lost in the

commonplace. The ancient theory of wives in multiples is giving

place to the modern practice of wives in series.

The story is told that a dear Shaker brother once fell from grace

and disappeared in the maelstrom of the carnal world; in a few

years he came back as penitent as he was penniless, with strange

accounts of how men had fleeced him of all he possessed save the

clothes--none too desirable--on his back. Men were so scarce that

the credulous sisters and charitable deacons voted to accept his

tales as true and receive him once more into the fold.

It was in 1770, while in prison in England, that Ann Lee claimed

to have had a great revelation concerning original sin, wherein it

was revealed that a celibate life is a condition precedent to

spiritual regeneration. Her revelation may have been biased by the

fact that she herself was married, but not comfortably.

In 1773, on her release from prison, another revelation told her

to go to America. Her husband did not sympathize with the celibacy

proposition, left "Mother Ann," as she was then known, and went

off with another woman who was unhampered by revelations. This was

the beginning of desertions which have continued ever since, until

the men are reduced to a corporal's guard.

The principles of the Shakers, barring celibacy, are sound and

practical, and, so far as known, they live up to them quite

faithfully. Like the original Oneida community, they believe in

free criticism of one another in open meetings. They admit no one

to the society unless he or she promises to make a full confession

before others of every evil that can be recalled,--women confess

to women, men to men; these requirements make it difficult to

recruit their ranks. They are opposed to war and violence, do not

vote, and do not permit corporal punishment. They pay their full

share of public taxes and assessments and give largely in charity.

Their buildings are well built and well kept, their farms and

lands worked to the best advantage; in short, they are industrious

and thrifty.

Communism is one of those dreams that come so often to the best of

mankind and, lingering on through the waking hours, influence

conduct. The sharp distinctions and inequalities of life seem so

harsh and unjust; the wide intervals which separate those who have

from those who have not seem so unfair, that in all ages and in

all countries men have tried to devise schemes for social

equality,--equality of power, opportunity, and achievement.

Communism of some sort is one solution urged,--communism in

property, communism in effort, communism in results, everything in

common.

In 1840 Emerson wrote to Carlyle, "We are all a little wild here

with numberless projects of social reform. Not a reading man but

has a draft of a new community in his waistcoat pocket. I am

gently mad myself, and am resolved to live cleanly. George Ripley

is talking up a colony of agriculturists and scholars, with whom

he threatens to take the field and book. One man renounces the use

of animal food; another of coin; and another of domestic hired

service; and another of the State; and on the whole we have a

commendable share of reason and of hope."

Ripley did found his Brook Farm, and a lot of good people went and

lived there--not Emerson; he was just a trifle too sane to be won

over completely, but even he used to go into his own garden and

dig in a socialistic way until his little boy warned him not to

dig his foot.

That is the trouble with communism, those who dig are apt to dig

their feet. It is easier to call a spade a spade than to use one.

Men may be born free and equal, but if they are, they do not show

it. From his first breath man is oppressed by the conditions of

his existence, and life is a struggle with environment. Freedom

and liberty are terms of relative not absolute value. The

absolutism of the commune is oppression refined, each man must dig

even if he digs his own foot. The plea of the anarchist for

liberty is more consistent than the plea of the communist,--the

one does demand a wild, lawless freedom for individual initiative;

the other demands the very refinement of interference with liberty

of mind and body.

The evolutionist looks on with philosophic indifference, knowing

that what is to be will be, that the stream of tendency is not to

be checked or swerved by vaporings, but moves irresistibly onward,

though every thought, every utterance, every experiment, however

wild, however visionary, has its effect.

We of the practical world sojourning in the Shaker village may

commiserate the disciples of theory, but they are happy in their

own way,--possibly happier in their seclusion and routine than we

are in our hurly-burly and endless strife for social, commercial,

and political advantages. Life is as settled and certain for them

as it is unsettled and uncertain for us. No problems confront

them; the everlasting query, "What shall we do to-morrow?" is

never asked; plans for the coming summer do not disturb them; the

seashore is far off; Paris and Monte Carlo are but places, vague

and indistinct, the fairy tales of travellers; their city is the

four walls of their home; their world the one long, silent, street

of the village; their end the little graveyard beyond; it is all

planned out, foreseen, and arranged.

Such a life is not without its charms, and it is small wonder that

in all ages men of intellect have sought in some form of

communistic association relief from the pressure of strenuous

individualism. We may smile with condescension upon the busy

sisters in their caps and gingham gowns, but, who knows, theirs

may be the better lot.

Life with us is a good deal of an automobile race,--a lot of dust,

dirt, and noise; explosions, accidents, and delays; something

wrong most of the time; now a burst of headlong speed, then a jolt

and sudden stop; or a creeping pace with disordered mechanism; no

time to think of much except the machine; less time to see

anything except the road immediately ahead; strife to pass others;

reckless indifference to life and limb; one long, mad contest for

success and notoriety, ending for the most part in some sort of

disaster,--possibly a sea of flame.

If we possessed any sense of grim, sardonic humor, we would

appreciate how ridiculous is the life we lead, how utterly absurd

is our waste of time, our dissipation of the few days and hours

vouchsafed us. We are just so many cicadas drumming out the hours

and disappearing. We have abundance of wit, and a good deal of

humor of a superficial kind, but the penetrating vision of a

Socrates, a Voltaire, a Carlyle is denied the most of us, and we

take ourselves and our accustomed pursuits most seriously.

On our way back from the village we stopped at the birthplace of

Samuel Tilden,--an old-fashioned white frame house, situated in

the very fork of the roads, and surrounded by tall trees. Not far

away is the cemetery, where a stone sarcophagus contains the

remains of a man who was very able if not very great.

Probably not fifty people in the United States, aside from those

living in the neighborhood, know where Tilden was born. We did not

until we came abruptly upon the house and were told; probably not

a dozen could tell exactly where he is buried. Such is fame. And

yet this man, in the belief of most of his countrymen, was chosen

president, though never seated; he was governor of New York and a

vital force in the politics and public life of his times,--now

forgotten.

What a disappointment it must have been to come so near and yet

miss the presidency. Before 1880 came around, his own party had so

far forgotten him that he was scarcely mentioned for

renomination,--though Tilden decrepit was incomparably stronger

than Hancock "the superb." It was hard work enthusing over

"Hancock and Hooray" after "Tilden and Reform;" the latter cry had

substance, the former was just fustian.

The Democratic party is as iconoclastic as the Republican is

reverential. The former loves to pick flaws in its idols and dash

them to pieces; the latter, with stolid conservatism, clings

loyally to its mediocrities. The latter could have elected Bryan,

the former could not; the Democratic stomach is freaky and very

squeamish; it swallows many things but digests few; the

ostrich-like Republican organ has never been known to reject

anything.

Republicans swear stanchly** by every president they have ever

elected. Democrats abandoned Tilden and spurned Cleveland, the

only two men they have come within a thousand miles of electing in

ten campaigns. The lesson of well-nigh half a century makes no

impression, the blind are leading the blind.

It is a far cry from former leaders such as Tilden, Hewitt,

Bayard, and Cleveland to those of to-day; a party which seeks its

candidate among the populists of Nebraska courts defeat. The two

nominations of Bryan mark low level in the political tide; it is

not conceivable that a great political party could sink lower; for

less of a statesman and more of a demagogue does not exist. The

one great opportunity the little man had to show some ability as a

leader was when the treaty of Paris was being fiercely debated at

Washington; the sentiment of his party and the best men of the

country were against the purchase of the Philippines; but this

cross-roads politician, who could not see beyond the tip of his

nose, hastened to Washington, played into the hands of the jingoes

by persuading the wiser men of his own party--men who should not

have listened to him--to withdraw their opposition.

Bryan had two opportunities to exhibit qualities of statesmanship

in the beginning of the war with Spain, and in the discussion of

the treaty of Paris; he missed both. So far as the war was

concerned, he never had an idea beyond a little cheap renown as a

paper colonel of volunteers; so far as the treaty was concerned,

he made the unpardonable blunder of playing into the hands of his

opponents, and leaving the sound and conservative sentiment of the

country without adequate leadership in Washington.

While we were curiously looking at the Tilden homestead, an old

man came walking slowly down the road, a rake over his shoulder,

one leg of his patched trousers stuck in a boot-top, a suspender

missing, his old straw hat minus a goodly portion of its crown. He

stopped, leaned upon his rake, and looked at us inquisitively,

then remarked in drawling tone,--

"I know'd Sam Tilden."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, I know'd him; he was a great man."

"You are a Democrat?"

"I wuz, but ain't now," pensively.

"Why ar'n't you?"

"Well, you see, I wuz allus a rock-ribbed Jacksonian fr'm a boy;

seed the ole gen'ral onc't, an' I voted for Douglas an' Seymore. I

skipped Greeley, fur he warn't no Dem'crat; an' I voted fur Tilden

an' Hancock an' Cleveland; but when it come to votin' fur a

cyclone fr'm N'braska,--jest wind an' nothin' more,--I kicked over

the traces."

"Then you don't believe in the divine ratio of sixteen to one?"

"Young man, silver an' gold come out'r the ground, jes' lik' corn

an' wheat. When you kin make two bush'ls corn wu'th a bush'l wheat

by law an' keep 'em there, you can fix the rasho 'twixt silver an'

gold, an' not before," and the old man shouldered his rake and

wandered on up the road.

Before leaving the birthplace of Tilden, it is worth noting that

for forty years every candidate favored by Tammany has been

ignominiously defeated; the two candidates bitterly opposed by the

New York machine were successful. It is to the credit of the party

that no Democrat can be elected president unless he is the avowed

and unrelenting foe of corruption within and without the ranks.

The farmer with whom we were staying had earlier in the summer a

flock of sixty young and promising turkeys; of the lot but twenty

were left, and one of them was moping about as his forty brothers

and sisters had moped before, ready to die.

"Ah, he'll go with the others," said the farmer. "Raising turkeys

is a ticklish job; to-day they're scratching gravel for all

they're worth; to-morrow they mope around an' die; no telling

what's the matter."

"Suppose we give that turkey some whiskey and water; it may help

him."

"Can't do him any harm, fur he'll die anyway; but it's a waste of

good medicine."

Soaking some bread in good, strong Scotch, diluted with very

little water, we gave the turkey what was equivalent to a

teaspoonful. The bird did not take unkindly to the mixture. It had

been standing about all day first on one leg, then on another,

with eyes half closed and head turned feebly to one side. In a few

moments the effect of the whiskey became apparent; the half-grown

bird could no longer stand on one leg, but used both, placing them

well apart for support. It began to show signs of animation,

peering about with first one eye and then the other; with great

gravity and deliberation it made its way to the centre of the road

and looked about for gravel; fixing its eye upon an attractive

little pebble it aimed for it, missed it by about two inches and

rolled in the dust; by this time the other turkeys were staring in

amazement; slowly pulling itself together he shook the dust from

his feathers, cast a scornful eye upon the crowd about him and

looked again for the pebble; there it was within easy shot; taking

good aim with one eye closed he made another lunge, ploughed his

head into the dust, making a complete somersault. By this time the

two old turkeys were attracted by the unusual excitement; making

their way through the throng of youngsters, they gazed for a

moment upon the downfall of one of their progeny, and then giving

vent to their indignation in loud cries pounced upon their tipsy

offspring and pecked him until he struggled upright and staggered

away. The last we saw of the young scapegrace he was smoothing his

ruffled plumage before a shining milk-pail and apparently

admonishing his unsteady double. It is worth recording that the

turkey was better the next day, and lived, as we were afterwards

told, to a ripe old Thanksgiving age.

The new steering-head came early the next morning; in thirty

minutes it was in place. Our host and valley hostess were then

given their first automobile ride; she, womanlike, took the speed,

sudden turns, and strange sensations more coolly than he. As a

rule, women and children are more fearless than men in an

automobile; this is not because they have more courage, but men

realize more vividly the things that might happen, whereas women

and children simply feel the exhilaration of the speed without

thinking of possible disasters.

We went down the road at a thirty-mile clip, made a quick turn at

the four corners, and were back almost before the dust we raised

had settled.

"That's something like," said our host; "but the old horse is a

good enough automobile for me."

The hold-all was soon strapped in place, and at half-past nine we

were off for Pittsfield.

Passing the Tilden homestead, we soon began the ascent of the

mountain, following the superb new State road.

The old road was through the Shaker village and contained grades

which rendered it impossible for teams to draw any but the

lightest loads. It was only when market conditions were very

abnormal that the farmers in the valley would draw their hay,

grain, and produce to Pittsfield.

The new State road winds around and over the mountain at a grade

nowhere exceeding five per cent. and averaging a little over four.

It is a broad macadam, perfectly constructed.

In going up this easy and perfectly smooth ascent for some six or

seven miles, the disadvantage of having no intermediate-speed

gears was forcibly illustrated, for the grade was just too stiff

for the high-speed gear, and yet so easy that the engine tended to

race on the low, but we had to make the entire ascent on the

hill-climbing gear at a rate of about four or five miles an hour;

an intermediate-gear would have carried us up at twelve or fifteen

miles per hour.

CHAPTER TWELVE AN INCIDENT OF TRAVEL

"THE COURT CONSIDERS THE MATTER"

In Pittsfield the machine frightened a lawyer,--not a woman, or a

child, or a horse, or a donkey,--but just a lawyer; to be sure,

there was nothing to indicate he was a lawyer, and still less that

he was unusually timid of his kind, therefore no blame could

attach for failing to distinguish him from men less nervous.

That he was frightened, no one who saw him run could deny; that he

was needlessly frightened, seemed equally plain; that he was

chagrined when bystanders laughed at his exhibition, was highly

probable.

Now law is the business of a lawyer; it is his refuge in trouble

and at the same time his source of revenue; and it is a poor

lawyer who cannot make his refuge pay a little something every

time it affords him consolation for real or fancied injury.

In this case the lawyer collected exactly sixty cents' worth of

consolation,--two quarters and a dime, the price of two lunches

and a cup of coffee, or a dozen "Pittsfield Stogies," if there be

so fragrant a brand;--the lay mind cannot grasp the possibilities

of two quarters and a ten-cent piece in the strong and resourceful

grasp of a Pittsfield lawyer. In these thrifty New England towns

one always gets a great many pennies in change; small money is the

current coin; great stress is set upon a well-worn quarter, and a

dime is precious in the sight of the native.

It so happened that just about the time of our arrival, the

machinery of justice in and about Pittsfield was running a little

wild anyway.

In an adjoining township, on the same day, ex-President Cleveland,

who was whiling away time in the philosophic pursuit of fishing,

was charged with catching and retaining longer than the law

allowed a bass which was a quarter of an inch under the legal

limit of eight inches. Now in the excitement of the moment that

bass no doubt felt like a whale to the great man, and as it neared

the surface, after the manner of its kind, it of course looked as

long as a pickerel; then, too; the measly fish was probably a

silver bass, and once in the boat shrunk a quarter of an inch,

just to get the eminent gold Democrat in trouble. At all events,

the friend who was along gallantly claimed the bass as his,

appeared in the Great Barrington district court, and paid a fine

of two dollars.

Now these things are characteristic of the place, daubs of local

coloring; the summer resident upon whom the provincials thrive is

not disturbed; but the stranger who is within the gates, who is

just passing through, from whom no money in the way of small

purchases and custom is to be expected, he is legitimate plunder,

even though he be so distinguished a stranger as an ex-President

of the United States.

A local paper related the fishing episode as follows:

"Ex-President Grover Cleveland, who is spending the summer in

Tyringham, narrowly escaped being arrested at Lake Garfield, in

Monterey, Thursday afternoon. As it was, he received a verbal

summons to appear in the Great Barrington district court this

morning and answer the charge of illegal fishing. But when the

complainants learned who the distinguished person was with whom

they were dealing, they let drop the matter of swearing out a

warrant, and in Mr. Cleveland's place appeared Cassius C.

Scranton, of Monterey.

"He pleaded guilty to catching a bass less than eight inches in

length, which is the minimum allowed by law, and was fined two

dollars by Judge Sanford, but as Mr. Cleveland said that he caught

the fish, there is still a good deal of doubt among the residents

of southern Berkshire as to which one was actually guilty.

However, if the hero of the Hawaiian enterprise was the unlucky

angler who caught the bass, he was relieved of the unpleasant

notoriety of being summoned into court on a warrant by the very

charitable act of Mr. Scranton, of Monterey, who will forever go

down in the history of that town as the stalwart defender of the

ex-president."

It is not conceivable that such a ridiculous display of

impecunious justice would be made elsewhere in the country. In the

South the judge would dismiss the complainant or pay the fine

himself; in the West he would be mobbed if he did not. New York

would find a tactful and courteous way of avoiding the semblance

of an arrest or the imposition of a fine; but in thrifty

Massachusetts, and in thrice thrifty Great Barrington, and in

twice thrice thrifty Pittsfield, pennies count, are counted, and

most conscientiously received and receipted for by those who set

the wheels of justice in motion.

North Street is broad and West Street is broad, and there is

abundance of room for man and beast.

At the hour in question there were no women, children, or horses

in the street; the crossings were clear save for a young man with

a straw hat, whose general appearance betrayed no sign of undue

timidity. He was on the far crossing, sixty or seventy feet

distant. When the horn was sounded for the turn down into West

Street, he turned, gave one look at the machine, jumped, and ran.

In a few moments the young man with the straw hat came to the

place where the machine had stopped. He was followed by a short,

stubby little friend with a sandy beard, who, while apparently

acting as second, threatened each moment to take the matter into

his own hands and usurp the place of principal.

Straw Hat was placable and quite disposed to accept an expression

of regret that fright had been occasioned.

Sandy Beard would not have it so, and urged Straw Hat to make a

complaint.

Straw Hat spurred on his flagging indignation and asked for a

card.

Sandy Beard told Straw Hat not to be deterred by soft words and

civility, and promised to stand by him, or rather back of him;

whereupon something like the following might have occurred.

Sandy Beard.--Then you know what is to be done?

Straw Hat.--Not I, upon my soul!

Sandy Beard.--We wear no clubs here, but you understand me.

Straw Hat.--What! arrest him.

Sandy Beard.--Why to be sure; what can I mean else?

Straw Hat.--But he has given me no provocation.

Sandy Beard.--Now, I think he has given you the greatest

provocation in the world. Can a man commit a more heinous offence

against another than to frighten him? Ah! by my soul, it is a most

unpardonable breach of something.

Straw Hat.--Breach of something! Ay, ay; but is't a breach of the

peace? I have no acquaintance with this man. I never saw him

before in my life.

Sandy Beard.--That's no argument at all; he has the less right to

take such a liberty.

Straw Hat.--Gad, that's true. I grow full of anger, Sir Sandy!

fire ahead! Odds, writs and warrants! I find a man may have a good

deal of valor in him, and not know it! But couldn't I contrive to

have a little right on my side?

Sandy Beard.--What the devil signifies right when your courage is

concerned. Do you think Verges, or my little Dogberry ever

inquired where the right lay? No, by my soul; they drew their

writs, and left the lazy justice of the peace to settle the right

of it.

Straw Hat.--Your words are a grenadier's march to my heart! I

believe courage must be catching! I certainly do feel a kind of

valor rising as it were,--a kind of courage, as I may say. Odds,

writs and warrants! I'll complain directly.

(With apologies to Sheridan.)

And the pair went off to make their complaint.

Suppose each had been given then and there the sixty cents he

afterwards received and duly receipted for, would it have saved

time and trouble? Who knows? but the diversion of the afternoon

would have been lost.

In a few moments an officer quite courteously--refreshing

contrast--notified me that complaint was in process of making.

I found the chief of police with a copy of the city ordinance

trying to draw some sort of a complaint that would fit the

extraordinary case, for the charge was not the usual one, that the

machine was going at an unlawful speed, but that a lawyer had been

frightened; to find the punishment that would fit that crime was

no easy task.

The ordinance is liberal,--ten miles an hour; and the young man

and his mentor had not said the speed of the automobile was

greater than the law allowed, hence the dilemma of the chief; but

we discussed a clause which provided that vehicles should not be

driven through the streets in a manner so as to endanger public

travel, and he thought the complaint would rest on that provision.

However lacking the bar of Pittsfield may be in the amenities of

life, the bench is courtesy itself. There was no court until next

day; but calling at the judge's very delightful home, which

happens to be on one of the interesting old streets of the town,

he said he would come down and hear the matter at two o'clock, so

I could get away that afternoon.

The first and wisest impulse of the automobilist is to pay

whatever fine is imposed and go on, but frightening a lawyer is

not an every-day occurrence. I once frightened a pair of army

mules; but a lawyer,--the experience was too novel to let pass

lightly. The game promised to be worth the candle.

The scene shifts to a dingy little room in the basement of the

court-house; present, Straw Hat and Sandy Beard, with populace.

To corroborate--wise precaution on the part of a lawyer in his own

court--their story, they bring along a volunteer witness in

over-alls,--the three making a trio hard to beat.

Straw Hat takes the stand and testifies he is an unusually timid

man, and was most frightened to death.

Sandy Beard's testimony is both graphic and corroborative.

The witness in over-alls, with some embellishments of his own,

supports Sandy Beard.

The row of bricks is complete.

The court removes a prop by remarking that the ordinance speed has

not been exceeded.

The bricks totter.

Whereupon, Sandy Beard now takes the matter into his own hands,

and, ignoring the professional acquirements of his principal,

addresses the court and urges the imposition of a fine,--a fine

being the only satisfaction, and source of immediate revenue,

conceivable to Sandy Beard.

Meanwhile Straw Hat is silent; the witness in over-alls is

perturbed.

The court considers the matter, and says "the embarrassing feature

of the case is that it has yet to be shown that the defendant was

going at a rate exceeding ten miles an hour, and upon this point

the witnesses did not agree. There was evidence tending to prove

the machine was going ten miles an hour, but that would not lead

to conviction under the first clause of the ordinance; but there

is another clause which says that a machine must not be run in

such a manner as to endanger or inconvenience public travel. What

is detrimental to public travel? Does it mean to run it so as not

to frighten a man of nerve like the chief of police, or some timid

person? It is urged that not one man in a thousand would have been

frightened like Mr.-- ; but a man is bound to run his machine in

the streets so as to frighten no one, therefore the defendant is

fined five dollars and costs."

The fine is duly paid, and Messrs. Straw Hat, Sandy Beard, and

Over-alls, come forward, receive and receipt for sixty cents each.

Their wrath was appeased, their wounded feelings soothed, their

valor satisfied,--one dollar and eighty cents for the bunch.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN THROUGH MASSACHUSETTS

IN LENOX

There are several roads out of Pittsfield to Springfield, and if

one asks a half-dozen citizens, who pretend to know, which is the

best, a half-dozen violently conflicting opinions will be

forthcoming.

The truth seems to be that all the roads are pretty good,--that

is, they are all very hilly and rather soft. One expects the

hills, and must put up with the sand. It is impossible to get to

Springfield, which is far on the other side of the mountains,

without making some stiff grades,--few grades so bad as Nelson's

Hill out of Peekskill, or worse than Pride's Hill near Fonda; in

fact, the grades through the Berkshires are no worse than many

short stiff grades that are to be found in any rolling country,

but there are more of them, and occasionally the road is rough or

soft, making it hard going.

The road commonly recommended as the more direct is by way of

Dalton and Hinsdale, following as closely as possible the line of

the Boston and Albany; this winds about in the valleys and is said

to be very good.

We preferred a more picturesque though less travelled route. We

wished to go through Lenox, some six or seven miles to the south,

and if anything a little to the west, and therefore out of our

direct course.

The road from Pittsfield to Lenox is a famous drive, one of the

wonders of that little world. It is not bad, neither is it good.

Compared with the superb State road over the mountain, it is a

trail over a prairie. As a matter of fact, it is just a broad,

graded, and somewhat improved highway, too rough for fast speed

and comfort, and on the Saturday morning in question dust was

inches deep.

The day was fine, the country beautiful; hills everywhere, hills

so high they were almost mountains. The dust of summer was on the

foliage, a few late blossoms lingered by the roadside, but for the

most part flowers had turned to seeds, and seeds were ready to

fall. The fields were in stubble, hay in the mow and straw in the

stack. The green of the hills was deeper in hue, the valleys were

ripe for autumn.

People were flocking to the Berkshires from seashore and

mountains; the "season" was about to begin in earnest; hotels were

filled or rapidly filling, and Lenox--dear, peaceful little

village in one of nature's fairest hollows--was most enticing as

we passed slowly through, stopping once or twice to make sure of

our very uncertain way.

The slowest automobile is too fast for so delightful a spot as

Lenox. One should amble through on a palfrey, or walk, or, better

still, pass not through at all, but tarry and dream the days away

until the last leaves are off the trees. But the habit of the

automobile is infectious, one goes on and on in spite of all

attractions, the appeals of nature, the protests of friends.

Ulysses should have whizzed by the Sirens in an auto. The

Wandering Jew, if still on his rounds, should buy a machine; it

will fit his case to a nicety; his punishment will become a habit;

he will join an automobile club, go on an endurance contest, and,

in the brief moments allowed him for rest and oiling up, will swap

stories with the boys.

With a sigh of relief, one finishes a long day's run, thinking it

will suffice for many a day to come; the evening is scarce over

before elfin suggestions of possible rides for the morrow are

floating about in the air, and when morning comes the automobile

is taken out,--very much as the toper who has sworn off the night

before takes his morning dram,--it just can't be helped.

Our way lay over October Mountain by a road not much frequented.

In the morning's ride we did not meet a trap of any kind or a

rider,--something quite unusual in that country of riders and

drivers. The road seemed to cling to the highest hills, and we

climbed up and up for hours. Only once was the grade so steep that

we were obliged to dismount. We passed through no village until we

reached the other side, but every now and then we would come to a

little clearing with two or three houses, possibly a forlorn store

and a silent blacksmith shop; these spots seemed even more lonely

and deserted than the woods themselves. Man is so essentially a

gregarious animal that to come upon a lone house in a wilderness

is more depressing than the forests. Nature is never alone; it

knows no solitude; it is a mighty whole, each part of which is in

constant communication with every other part. Nature needs no

telephone; from time immemorial it has used wireless telegraphy in

a condition of perfection unknown to man. Every morning Mount

Blanc sends a message to Pike's Peak, and it sends it on over the

waters to Fujisan. The bosom of the earth thrills with nervous

energy; the air is charged with electric force; the blue ether of

the universe throbs with motion. Nature knows no environment; but

man is fettered, a spirit in a cage, a mournful soul that seeks

companionship in misery. Solitude is a word unknown to nature's

vocabulary. The deepest recesses of the forest teem with life and

joyousness until man appears, then they are filled with solitude.

The wind-swept desert is one of nature's play-grounds until man

appears, then it is barren with solitude. The darkest mountain

cavern echoes with nature's laughter until man appears, then it is

hollow with solitude. The shadow of man is solitude.

Instead of coming out at Becket as we expected, we found ourselves

way down near Otis and West Otis, and passed through North

Blandford and Blandford to Fairfield, where we struck the main

road.

We stopped for dinner at a small village a few miles from

Westfield. There was but one store, but it kept a barrel of stove

gasoline in an apple orchard. The gasoline was good, but the

gallon measure into which it was drawn had been used for oil,

varnish, turpentine, and every liquid a country store is supposed

to keep--not excepting molasses. It was crusted with sediment and

had a most evil smell. Needless to say the measure was rejected;

but that availed little, since the young clerk poured the gasoline

back into the barrel to draw it out again into a cleaner

receptacle.